The Second Coming, page 14
Inside the bathroom, Mercedes stops to look around in wonderment once again, forgetting all about the cut on her hand. Wow! This isn’t a bathroom. It’s a spa!
If not for the toilet, the bathroom really does resemble an exclusive spa, since it contains everything a spa does, including a free-standing soaker tub, a sauna, a massage table, a mini wine cellar, a stereo system with surround sound, and so on.
The pain in her hand reminds her of the cut, and Mercedes runs water over it and carefully bandages it using a first-aid kit she finds in one of the cabinets.
Mercedes emerges with her cloth bandage and picks up the remaining pieces of glass, putting them in a nearby trash basket. She spots a computer tablet on a desk and picks it up. What more can I discover with the help of Google? As she waits for it to power up, she once again finds herself excitedly thinking, I can’t believe this! This is the house I’ve always imagined—and it even has some of my stuff from the condo.
The tablet springs to life, and the Western Trust Bank app appears on the screen, showing the sign-in page for current account holders. Mercedes signs into her account and then waits anxiously as her account details appear on the screen. In shock, she slowly whispers to herself, “Your balance as of today is $6,141,312,000.”
Mercedes’s jaw drops, and she accidently drops the computer tablet. Although she expected a considerable sum given her current surroundings, she had no idea it would be this much!
She looks ahead blankly for several seconds, in shock, not really seeing anything, and then bursts out hysterically, “I’m rich! I’m rich! I can’t believe it! I’m filthy rich! $6,141,312,000! And it’s all mine? I’m the sole, sole owner of such a freaking ridiculous amount! No, I’m not just rich! I’m Jay-Z, Gates, Rockefeller, Bezos rich!”
Mercedes falls to the floor and rolls on the plush white carpet in ecstatic joy.
Then she sits up and shouts, “This is it! I may never leave this place. I don’t want ever to leave this house! I might just stay here forever!” She prolongs this last word, letting the Rs roll over her tongue. Then she goes back to rolling on the carpet, beaming with sheer joy.
CHAPTER 9
Clarence Monet’s Proposal
Back in Beverly Hills, the sun brightens the skies and casts its light on three cars parked in the circular driveway of a sprawling Georgian Colonial brick mansion. The outside security gate entrance alone is enough to reveal that it belongs to someone who is immensely rich. The nameplate on the gate reads Monet Manor.
The cars parked outside glitter in the sun. Two of them look like they’ve come straight out of Car and Driver magazine, with their high-end features, shiny exteriors, and lavish interiors. The much shabbier third car is completely out of place.
The door of this car opens, and Shawn Abernathy steps out, not at all unnerved by the fact that his car doesn’t belong here. With a brisk, confident, and purposeful stride, he approaches the tall glass double doors, rings the bell, and says something into the intercom. The door opens at once, and Shawn smiles.
He’s welcomed into the mansion, and he strides through the hallways until he finally reaches the den. He gently knocks once, waits for three seconds, and then walks in.
The first things he notices are the vast, Brazilian-wood-paneled walls, which are lined with fully stocked bookshelves, apart from the very center of one wall. The wooden paneling on this particular side is almost invisible behind an enormous portrait. The man in the portrait looks like someone who is old but desperate to look twenty years younger. He’s wearing black Versace sunglasses, a silk floral shirt, and big, expensive rings on his fingers.
The books are all leather-bound. While they reflect a diverse, intellectual taste, one can tell by their pristine exteriors that they’ve probably never been opened. They’re for show only, but most guests know there are plenty of books in the rest of the house that the homeowner has read.
Imported leather couches and the most delicate antique furnishings are artistically scattered throughout the rest of the room, with small but stylish polished wooden tables in between. The office desk is topped with a glass chessboard and black and white ivory pieces that also look brand new and unused.
The man from the portrait is seated in a leather chair behind his desk. This is the famous, award-winning screenplay writer Clarence Monet. When he sees Shawn enter, Clarence waves his hand in the air, and they greet each other with a handshake.
Shawn hands Clarence some photos to review, and the writer peruses them, shaking his head in disdain. He finally puts them on the desk. “I can’t believe my wife would fall for a scumbag, ambulance-chasing accident attorney.”
Shawn answers with a comforting smile, “It’s unfortunate, but I think it’s better to find out now than later.”
“It’s never a better time,” Clarence replies.
Shawn opens his mouth to answer but then quickly bites his lip. Realizing Clarence still expects him to respond, he says, “You’ve only been married for two years, so hopefully, it will get better with time. She did sign a prenup, right?”
Clarence unlocks his desk’s top drawer, pulls out a legal document, and shows it to Shawn with a triumphant expression. “Are you kidding? Of course! I’m not that stupid.”
“That you’re clearly not,” Shawn mutters under his breath.
“I’m sorry, did you just say something?” Clarence asks.
“Nothing important, no,” Shawn answers. “I was just wondering if everything is alright, in that case.”
“Alright? It’s better than alright!” Clarence answers enthusiastically. “According to these terms, if my wife is discovered having an affair, she loses a hefty divorce settlement. You just saved me a whopping three million dollars!”
He smiles as he says this, his eyes gleaming at the prospect. Shawn’s eyes open wide and he exclaims, “Wow! How did you accumulate so much wealth by being just a screenwriter?”
“Just a screenwriter?” Clarence asks, his plump face turning a light shade of pink. “Did you really just say ‘just a screenwriter’?”
“No, no,” Shawn stammers as he realizes his mistake, “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Then what exactly did you mean, Shawn?” Clarence asks in a dangerously calm tone.
“I mean . . .” Shawn pauses, trying to come up with something quick. “I mean, don’t the actors, producers, and directors get the biggest cuts?”
Clarence isn’t appeased. He now asks, looking disturbed, “What exactly do you mean? You think what I do is easy? You think I have achieved all this”—he gestures to the room—“just by sitting around all day, doing nothing?”
Shawn squirms in his chair. He blushes as he says, “No, I didn’t say that. And that’s not what I meant at all. I’m just wondering—how difficult can it be to write a movie and make as much money as you have? I mean, all you have to do is write, right? And how hard can writing be, considering . . .”
Shawn stops here because the deep red of Clarence’s face warns him that he’s making mistake after mistake.
“Considering what, Shawn?” Clarence asks.
“Well,” Shawn mumbles, “I mean, it’s just writing. You don’t have to get up or go anywhere when you’re writing. You don’t have to actually go to work every day.”
Shawn realizes he has just made the situation worse, because Clarence gets up from his chair and glares directly into Shawn’s eyes, fuming.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Monet. My intention was not to offend at all. I’m sure the writing part must be a bit difficult.”
He stops, leaving his sentence dangling. Clarence, now even more insulted, picks up a cigar, lights it, settles on the edge of his desk, and exclaims sharply, “A bit difficult?” He scoffs. “Let me tell you, Shawn: it’s very difficult! Not everyone can do it. And very few are great at it.”
Instead of putting his foot in his mouth again, Shawn nods. Clarence, however, realizes that Shawn doesn’t agree with him at all. A sarcastic smile spreads over his face as he leans forward and asks, “You think you can do it, Mr. Abernathy?”
Taken aback, Shawn laughs with embarrassment. “No way, sir!” he says. “I have no interest in writing a screenplay! I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” Getting serious, he continues, “Hey, I apologize if I have offended you, Mr. Monet. Again, I assure you that was not my intention. Of course you would know better about what you do. Come on, let’s get back to our discussion of the investigation, and forget this conversation ever happened. Okay?” Saying this, he extends his hand toward Clarence, who refuses to take it.
Instead, the screenwriter puts down his cigar and says, “Tell you what, smart guy. If you write a screenplay and I truly like it, I’ll give you a million dollars in cash—and if you lose, you must agree to waive all your investigation fees.”
Shawn jumps out of his chair at this and begins pacing back and forth. The idea of acquiring a million dollars, just like that, is tempting. Clarence moves back to his chair and watches Shawn with amusement.
“So, you’re saying,” Shawn says, as he finally stops pacing, “if I write a screenplay and you like it, you will give me a million dollars?”
Clarence nods.
“Wow!” Shawn mutters under his breath. He walks back to the chair and sits, then nervously pops back up, paces again, stops, and asks, “Question: what if you really like it and lie and say you don’t?”
Instead of taking offense at this like Shawn expects, Clarence smiles and says, “Always the cautious one, aren’t you, Shawn?”
Not knowing what else to do, Shawn simply nods and sits back in the chair.
Still smiling, Clarence reaches for his wallet, pulls out a business card, and hands it to Shawn. “Well, then we’ll allow my literary agent to decide. He’ll contact you if he comes across any promising work. That’s his business card. Send him a copy using an alias name. I don’t want to know the title or the storyline. Does that work for you?”
Shawn, also smiling now, rises enthusiastically and says, “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Monet.”
“Not so fast, Shawn,” Clarence says. “You can’t discuss this or receive help from anyone; otherwise, you lose. And you know I will be watching your every step.”
Shawn sits once again.
“You lose, you’ll have to write me a formal apology as well, agreed?”
This time, it’s Clarence who sticks out his hand. Shawn pauses, slowly reaches out, shakes it, then anxiously blurts, “Alright, it’s a deal. But what do you want me to write about?”
“If I help you, Shawn,” Clarence says, “you lose. Now, do you still want me to help?”
“Nope! I’ll take it from here. I better get going. I have a lot of work to do.”
As Shawn leaves the room, Clarence pushes a button. A monitor appears on one side of the wall and turns on, displaying the image of his front driveway, where he sees Shawn walking to his car. He smirks at the battered state of Shawn’s car. Realizing something, he pushes another button and shouts, “I’ll have my attorney write us up a confidential agreement. And, Shawn, don’t forget—I will be watching!”
Shawn whirls around in surprise, then spots an intercom and realizes Clarence is probably watching through a security camera. He nods, enters his car, and pulls away. Clarence shuts off the camera monitor and intercom, shaking his head.
He grabs his cigar and stands back up. Puffing, he chortles gleefully. “He doesn’t have a chance. Clarence, you are a genius, a rich genius! And Shawn isn’t anything more than a poor fool, who will have worked months for me, absolutely free!”
•••
Back in her apartment, Melody is fast asleep in bed, her eyes smeared with mascara, hair tangled, still fully dressed from the night before. Her landline phone rings, and at first she ignores it. When it keeps ringing shrilly, she makes a face, groans, and picks up the cordless handset.
“Hello? Hello?!” she answers, annoyed.
When she hears a very faint voice, she squints at the phone and realizes she’s holding it upside down. She yawns, turns it around, and continues, “Hello? Luther?” She sits up as her eyes open wide. “How did you get my—”
Luther cuts her off, speaking urgently. “I’m just checking on you, Melody, to make sure you’re alright. The ETG attendant said you left so abruptly, and Mercedes was looking for you, and I wasn’t sure what to tell her. That’s all.”
Melody glances at the clock in confusion. She exclaims, “I can’t believe it’s almost one in the afternoon! Is Mercedes okay, and does she know I’m back at home?”
Luther reassures her, and Melody lets out a sigh of relief and says, “Okay, good, let her know I’ll call her later. I had a weird dream last night that I was driving a Mercedes concept convertible sports car, eating, shopping; I saw you and . . .” She stops here, remembering her supposed dream encounter with her daughter. A shadow passes over her face, but shrugging, she continues, “Anyway, it felt so real and kinda scary at the same time.”
Melody stands and paces as she recalls more details of her surprisingly vivid and very realistic dream. She feels a sudden flash of anger. “Hey, what did you guys put in those apple slices we ate before entering the doors and—”
Luther interrupts, “Melody, that wasn’t a dream.”
Scoffing, she asks, “What do you mean—all that actually happened? It couldn’t have. That’s simply impossible.”
As Luther insists it is not impossible, Melody sits back down on the bed and angrily says, “Don’t play with me, Luther! I’m so not in the mood.” Thinking about the encounter with her daughter she mutters softly, sadly, “I don’t believe it. It was a dream—a dream, and nothing more. That’s all!”
As Luther keeps insisting, Melody finally erupts from the bed and shouts into her phone, “You’re lying! I don’t believe you! Never call me again!”
She abruptly ends the call.
As she flops back down on the bed, her eyes fall on her knee. She sees the scrape from her fall. She slowly puts her phone down, shaking, then gazes ahead blankly, unaware that her phone is ringing once again. It’s Luther, calling again to get her to return to ETG.
•••
In Sherman Oaks, California, a new day is slowly dawning. Small creatures and birds emerge from their homes, searching for food. A few pedestrians are out on the streets, some yawning, others checking their smartphones as they go about their business. In about an hour, the streets will reach their usual level of hustle and bustle.
Inside a public library, daylight streams in, revealing shelves upon shelves of old books on various topics. There’s a large wooden counter in one corner with a silver nameplate indicating that it belongs to the librarian. A couple of small, ancient-looking wooden tables stand in another corner, surrounded by chairs.
All of these tables are unoccupied, except for one. This one is next to an open window, and Shawn sits there, bent over a book and reading intently. He’s the only one in the library apart from the librarian, who doesn’t look pleased at having her privacy disturbed. She’s accustomed to long stretches of uninterrupted time, thanks to self-service options with the internet and kiosk technology.
Shawn sits next to a stack of library books on how to write screenplays. After skimming through several pages of the book he’s currently reading, he sighs, then yawns. Rubbing his eyes, he slowly gets up from the chair and approaches the librarian. “Do you have any other information on writing screenplays?”
The librarian glares at him through her spectacles.
“So, you’re trying to be a writer?” she asks snottily. Instead of answering, Shawn says patiently and politely, “May I have them, please?”
“Sir, you’ve checked out all that we have over the past few weeks,” the librarian answers, smirking. “There’s nothing else available.”
Now Shawn is the frustrated one. He mutters to himself, “I need to write about something I truly know about, something everybody is going to be interested in. But what? Why can’t I come up with something, anything?”
The librarian shakes her head. This guy is completely off his rocker. I wouldn’t be surprised if he does become a writer. Most of the successful ones are deranged in some form or another.
She circles around and takes his books from the table to start putting them in the sorting bin, then turns back and says, “Perhaps we just don’t have the book you’re looking for, sir. You could check one of the larger libraries in Los Angeles. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get these back on the shelves.”
Shawn’s eyes twinkle. “Do you think—” he begins.
“No, sir. I’m sure there are no other books on screenwriting here. And,” she mutters under her breath as she turns and places more books in the bin, “what you’re looking for I’m sure you’ll never find, because it doesn’t exist. What you’re looking for is a miracle.”
Shawn’s face lights up. He smiles and says, “Ma’am, I’ve already got the book I’ve been looking for all this time, and I’m just now realizing it! Thank you!” His smile grows wider, and he bends forward to kiss her on the cheek before darting out of the library.
“Yep, lunatic!” the librarian grouses, but she’s smiling now.
Shawn rushes back home, goes straight to the den, and plops down in front of his desktop computer. He prints out a piece of paper, grabs it from the printer tray, reads it, and throws it into a trash can full of crumpled papers. He then reloads a stack of copy paper in his printer, opens his desk’s top drawer, pulls out the Holy Bible, and places it next to the keyboard.
He types out: The Truth About the New World Order by John Smith.
He sits back, considering the words he has written. Finally content, he begins typing in a steady flow, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.
